The Child is the Father of the Man
by AndItsOuttaHere
Summary: A series of vignettes contrasting scenes from Raylan's childhood and youth with an incident from his early days as a Marshal.
1. Chapter 1

_Part I Gun Control  
_

"Raise it up a little. There, that's it. Balance on your feet, don't rock back on your heels." Helen stepped back and seven-year-old Raylan sighted the row of cans. His palms were sweaty and the weight of the rifle made his arm shake, but he steadied it, eyeing his target.

"Pull the trigger slow, now. You got all the time in the world."

The smoke from Helen's cigarette drifted in front of him. He blew out a breath, drew back and fired, blowing the center can off the fence. The jolt of the rifle almost knocked him off his feet.

Aunt Helen laughed. "That's it. My turn." She threw down the butt and stepped on it, grounding out the ashes. Shouldering her rifle and aiming in one quick motion, she pulled the trigger, sending another one of the cans spinning into oblivion.

"Now," she said, stepping back. "Let's change your perspective. Get down on your belly and shoot."

Raylan flattened himself in the grass, the early morning dampness soaking into his jeans. He missed his first target from this new position, but his second shot took the last can. Helen set her rifle down and helped him to his feet.

"You're gettin' good at this. Next time we'll use smaller cans." She gave him a wink.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Deacon Brewer was a two-strike robber on parole turned accidental murderer when the Shreveport convenience store clerk he walloped upside the head shot a blot clot and died. After a witness picked him out of a photo lineup he became one of Louisiana's Most Wanted. He was apprehended by the Travis County Sheriff trying to steal a pick-up truck from a ranch outside of Austin. Murder trumped auto theft. He was immediately extradited back to the Bayou State.

The Dallas Marshals' office was short-staffed due to two retirements and an unfortunate accident involving a deputy on prisoner transport, two buxom blondes in a convertible, and a longhorn steer who chose the wrong time to cross the road. Enter the U.S. Marshal service in the form of fresh-from-Glynco Raylan Givens.

With the most experienced deputies out of commission, the task of transporting Brewer fell to the new guy. "We don't usually solo on transports. But there's nothing to be done." Chief Deputy Walters told him. "I'd go with you myself, give us time to get to know each other, but I've got a meeting with the AUSA and the District Attorney about that shit Reynolds got himself into."

He went over a list of procedures and precautions that Raylan half-listened to, handed him the keys to an official vehicle, a requisition form for his meals and motel, and the file of paperwork on the prisoner. "Don't second guess yourself," Walters said, slapping a meaty hand on Raylan's shoulder. "You were top of your class. You know what to do."

Down in Austin, the sheriff's deputy took the federal paperwork, looked over it carefully, and shook his head. "Don't envy you five hours in a car with this asshole," he said. He vanished into the bowels of the county lockup and Raylan paced the lobby, hat in hand, studying the Texas map on the wall and marking the easiest route to Shreveport in his head.

The deputy reappeared ten minutes later with the one of the ugliest men Raylan had ever seen. Brewer was obviously bi-racial, and he hadn't gotten the best of both worlds. His kinky hair was reddish brown, his skin yellowish and freckled. There was an angry red scar running from his right ear across his cheek. It ended beside a nose so flat and wide that he wondered how the man managed to breathe. His muscular arms were covered with prison tattoos and he had at least two inches on Raylan.

"This here's Deputy U.S. Marshal Givens and he's gonna take you back to Louisiana where you belong." The sheriff's man said. "You're their problem."

"They sent a federal after me?" Ray Brewer winked at Raylan. "Looks like I done hit the big time."

Raylan slid on the hat and pulled the cuffs from his pocket. "Your mama would be proud,"

The deputy rolled his eyes. Raylan snapped the cuffs on the and the deputy removed the shackles. "Good luck," he said, stepping back behind the desk.


	2. Hunting Season

_Part II Hunting Season_

He got his first deer the year he turned nine. They'd up hiked the wooded ridge behind Aunt Helen's place right after sun-up that November Saturday. After an hour, the only deer they'd spotted was a young doe. Raylan watched her high step delicately through the brush, not even raising his rifle. Arlo had no patience for hunting in the early morning cold. He leaned his gun against a tree, shoving his hands in his pockets and grumbling about heading back.

Raylan ignored his father, standing still and scanning the woods slowly until he spied a flash of brown amid the gray-barked trees. He waited until the buck came into the clearing before he aimed and fired. The shot rang out in the quiet woods. Despite the painful smack of the rifle into his shoulder, Raylan kept his eye on the animal just like his Aunt Helen had said to. It ran for a bit, then stumbled. He saw it fall. He ran as fast as he could, but the gun was heavy and the slick, frost-covered leaves and tree roots slowed him down. Arlo reached the dying buck first.

"It's a four-pointer," he hooted. "Not bad, Kiddo." He ruffled Raylan's hair with a broad hand, beaming at him and Raylan turned his face up to it, a shy smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

The crackle of leaves underfoot interrupted the moment. "That boy's a crack shot, Givens. Damn site better'n you." Old Deke Simpkins, Arlo's crew boss at the mine, barked out a laugh as he trudged up the ridge past them, coal-ruined lungs wheezing with every step.

Arlo stiffened, the light fading from his face, and the rare moment of paternal pride passed. Raylan felt his father's anger and his cheeks grew hot, pleasure replaced by embarassment. He stared down at the animal, watched its ribs heave with the futile effort to breathe, smelled the blood as it soaked the ground, and threw up his breakfast of Mama's sausage and biscuits all over his new boots.

-o-o-o-o-

Brewer was asleep, or pretending to be, before Raylan turned the Crown Vic onto I-35. Forty or so miles down the road the low fuel light came on. It was a rookie mistake and he silently cursed himself as he cut across the lanes, took the nearest exit, and searched for a gas station. The nearest one was old, with ancient pumps that didn't take credit cards. He pumped his gas, double checked that Brewer was still sleeping and headed inside to pay.

The pony-tailed blonde behind the counter chewed her gum and smiled at him as the door jingled closed.

He grinned back and slipped down the side aisle, grabbing two Slim Jims and a bottled water from the cooler. Halfway back to the front he considered the prisoner and grabbed another water and a couple of candy bars. He laid everything out on the counter and reached for his wallet.

"Where you headed?" The girl had big brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Dressed in cut-offs and a v-neck NASCAR t-shirt that showed off her tan, she tossed her head as she rang up his purchases, leaning forward to give him a peak of milky white cleavage where her tan stopped.

With some effort he forced his eyes back to her face. "Shreveport."

She nodded. "I been there once or twice. Louisiana's nice."

"If you like swamps and gators."

"I like Zydeco." She did a little dance step behind the counter, swinging her hips, and he laughed. "Where you from?" She asked, keeping up the conversation as she rummaged under the counter for a sack. "That's a Texas hat, but not a Texas accent."

"Kentucky."

"Now that's someplace I've never been."

She looked wistful and he shook his head. "You aren't missin' anything."

"I am if there's more like you back there." She leaned forward again, swinging the bag in one hand.

The sound of an engine revving startled him out of his flirtation. He looked out the window just in time to see the Crown Vic spit gravel and shoot out onto the road, heading away from the highway.

"Shit!" He pulled out his gun but there was no shot. All he could do was stare in disbelief as the car and his prisoner disappeared in a cloud of dust and gravel.


	3. Some Things Borrowed

_Part III Some Things Borrowed_

Johnny sneered at him from the yard, tossing the baseball up in the air and catching it in his glove. "I don't think you can get no rifle," he yelled, mocking. He tossed the ball quickly in Raylan's direction. Distracted, Raylan missed and the ball sailed past, bouncing off the porch steps.

Bowman snickered.

"I can so," Raylan yelled back. Arlo had won the brand new Winchester rifle the week before in a bet at the VFW. Prouder than if he'd earned the money and bought it himself, he came home and hung it on the wall, wagging a bony finger at Raylan. "Don't you touch my gun, boy."

"Prove it," Johnny said.

Bowman stood behind him, hands on his hips, arms crossed over his chest. "You heard him. Go ahead, Givens, go get that rifle you _say _you got. Or are you chicken?"

He had to stand on a chair pulled in from the dining room to lift his daddy's new rifle from its hook on the wall. He glanced around the living room cautiously as he balanced in his bare feet, but the house was quiet. Mama was upstairs with a headache. He gave no mind to Arlo. His father was in jail, serving three days for drunk and disorderly.

He couldn't wait to show Bowman and Johnny the gun. He'd like to show Boyd, too, but he was off somewhere, probably with his nose in a book. Raylan put the chair back and pushed the porch door open, stepping out carefully, holding on to make sure it didn't slam shut behind him and wake Mama.

Raylan held the gun up and ran out into the yard. Forgetting everything he'd been taught about guns since he was old enough to walk, he stopped about three feet from Johnny and raised the rifle to his shoulder.

"Hey, Johnny," he called. Both Crowder boys turned and their eyes widened. Raylan thought he'd spooked them good and the laughter bubbled up until he heard the screen door slam.

"Raylan Givens you put that rifle down right this instant."

Johnny and Bowman took off running through the fields and his mother grabbed the gun. With her other hand she took him by the back of his shirt and dragged him into the house like some scraggly pup. She set the gun on the counter and whirled around, placing both hands on his shoulders. "You know better!" She said.

He dropped his head and she tucked a finger under his chin, raising his eyes to hers. He was used to Arlo's anger. It was like a thunderstorm, unpredictable and ferocious, but usually gone as quickly as it came. Mama's anger was laced heavily with disappointment, and he would feel it in her gaze for a long time.

He curled his toes against the cold linoleum "Sorry."

Raylan spent the rest of the afternoon peeling potatoes and writing "_Never point a gun at something you don't intend to shoot_" one-hundred times. The potatoes were his mama's punishment, the writing, Aunt Helen's after Mama called her and told on him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Raylan stood in the gas station lot, mouth agape and stared at the disappearing car. There was a rustle behind him and the girl appeared, a plastic bag in her hand. "Hey, you forgot your stuff."

"Someone just stole my car, goddamn it." He didn't even have his cell phone to call the office. He'd left it in the cup-holder. Not that he had any intention of calling the office to admit how stupid he'd been. "Goddamn it." He kicked at a rock and swore again, then paced back and forth in front of the gas pumps muttering stronger expletives under his breath. The girl just stood there, holding the sack, one hand on her hip.

A dusty VW van with rusted wheel-wells and faded orange paint pulled into the station and sputtered to a halt in front of Raylan. The man who stepped out was scrawny and bearded, dressed in torn blue jeans and a t-shirt that demanded 'Legalize Marijuana NOW'. His long graying hair hung in dirty hunks and he wore a headband, the word PEACE burned into the leather. He looked like he just stepped out of the sixties, and he smelled like he hadn't had a shower since. Raylan considered the van. It probably didn't smell much better, but it was transportation.

Raylan flashed his badge and reached for the man's keys. "I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal and I'm commandeering your vehicle for official Marshal business." He wasn't at all sure if he had the right to do that or not, but at the moment there weren't a lot of other options.

"Sure, Man," the man said, dropping the keys into Raylan's palm. His huge pupils were difficult to discern from the dark brown of his irises. The man was obviously not waiting for his drug of choice to be legalized.

Raylan tugged at the handle and the door swung open with a groan. A fog of sickly sweet smoke hit his face and he rolled down the driver's side window, then leaned over and rolled down the passenger side as well. Maybe the cross-draft would clear the air and keep him sober. "I'll bring it back as soon as I can," he told the man, pulling the door shut.

The old man nodded. "It's all cool." Flashing two fingers in a peace sign, he threw an arm around the girl and kissed her cheek.

"Here," she handed Raylan the bag with the water and candy through the window. "You bring my daddy's van back, you hear?"


	4. Bully for You

_Part IV Bully for You_

"I hear your daddy's in jail again, Ray-lan." Dickie Bennett's sing-song voice greeted him as he got on the bus. He slid into the seat next to Becky Gorslin, avoiding the stares of the other kids, and tried his best to ignore Dickie's jab.

Becky clutched her books to her chest and smiled at him, shy. "Mornin' Raylan."

"Mornin'."

"Hey, Givens, I'm talkin' to you," Dickie sang. "What'd your daddy do this time? Bust up the VFW? Oh, wait, that was last month. He beat up your mama again?" Dickie's crew of boys sniggered.

Raylan gritted his teeth.

"Don't pay no mind to him," Becky said in a whisper. "He's just a no-good troublemaker."

Raylan managed a grin.

"Lookit Raylan and Bucky over there," Dickie cat called. "Woohoo, must be true love. Bucky and Raaaaaaylaaaan."

Becky flushed and ducked her head. She had mousy brown hair, huge gray eyes and an unfortunate set of buck teeth, currently restrained by a set of railroad track braces that the orthodontist down in Harlan promised would give her a million dollar smile.

So far, all it did was give assholes like Dickie new ammunition.

"Shut up, Dickie," Raylan half stood, illegal on the bus, and Ronnie, the driver shot him a glare in the mirror.

"Sit down," Becky hissed. "Sit down. You're only gonna make it worse."

"Shut up?" Dickie taunted. "You gonna make me, Ray-lan?"

"That's enough," Ronnie said over the radio. "Dickie, sit down and shut up. Raylan, just sit down. It's Friday, give a guy a break."

Andy Pankin, who provided the muscle to back up Dickie's mouth, sniggered. "Yeah, Raylan. Go sit in your girlfriend's lap."

"She ain't my girlfriend." The words shot out of his mouth before he realized he'd just hurt Becky's feelings.

Her eyes narrowed and she shoved him. Hard.

Since he'd been half-standing, he went sprawling in the aisle on his ass, to the amusement of Dickie and his buddies.

"Raylan likes it rough like his mama," Dickie sniggered. "Go on, Becky, show us how you beat on your man."

Dickie made the mistake of leaning out into the aisle to hurl this last insult. Raylan pushed up and launched himself at Dickie, hitting him in the gut. Before he could collect himself and hit the asshole again, Andy grabbed him by the hair with one hand and bloodied his nose with the other. Girls started screaming and the bus screeched to a halt.

He sweated it out all day, but the office didn't call for him until last period. Now, Raylan squirmed in the hard, uncomfortable chair outside the guidance counselor's office. Miss. Maxwell was new. The junior high school never had a guidance counselor before this year, but a government grant had brought her and what Arlo called her 'bird-brained new fangled ideas' to Harlan. "Government oughta find better ways of spending our money than sendin' some citified prissy girl here to talk to our kids about what they should do. Isn't that our job?"

Helen, over for Sunday dinner, had just laughed at him and lit another cigarette, giving Raylan a wink.

He thought Miss Maxwell was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. All the boys did. Their mamas eyed her warily with her tan legs in short skirts and high heels, but to them she was a gift from the heavens. More than one boy had picked a fight or sassed a teacher in hopes of spending a few minutes alone in her tiny office.

His stomach turned a flip when the door opened and she stuck her head out. "Why don't you come on in, Raylan."

He let his eyes wander the room to avoid looking at her. The office was nothing more than a glorified closet, but the walls were painted off white and there were yellow curtains at the window. Framed diplomas and certificates hung on the wall. The only one he could read said _University of Cincinnati_ in gold letters.

"Sit down." Miss Maxwell said. She walked over to the desk and picked up a file.

He sat in another uncomfortable chair, his hands folded in his lap. Instead of taking a seat behind her desk, Miss Maxwell pulled a chair up to his, sitting down to face him. He could smell her perfume and a bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

"You know I'm going to have to call your mother," she said, opening the file and glancing down at the note on top. "This is the third fight you've been involved in in the last month. There's nothing on record before that. I've looked at your marks. You seem to be a smart, well-liked boy." She turned her gaze to him. "So, what's the problem? What's going on, Raylan?"

He shrugged his shoulders and turned his gaze to the window.

She looked at the note again. "You attacked Dickie Bennett on the bus? Isn't that the same boy you hit with a ball in gym last week? I've already talked to Mr. Bennett, and his friend Mr. Pankin, too. They say you started it, but that's not what the bus driver says. Are these boys picking on you?"

Raylan shrugged again.

"Mr. Lewis - Ronnie - the bus driver, says you were defending a young lady," she looks at the note again. "Becky Gorslin?"

Raylan didn't answer and after a moment she sighed and tried a different angle. "Is anything wrong at home?"

Swallowing, he found his voice. "No, ma'am."

"Raylan," she said, taking on a softer tone. "Harlan is a small town. I'm new here, but everyone seems to know everyone else. I asked your teachers, so I know your daddy's been in and out of jail lately and I know how hard that can be on a family. If you want to talk about anything, well, that's what I'm here for. That's my job." She smiled, tucking a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear.

He twisted his hands in his lap and looked out the window again. The buses were pulling in, and if she didn't let him go in a few minutes, he'd miss the bus. Mama would have to come to get him, or worse yet, Arlo. There'd be hell to pay if that happened. He bit his lip.

"So there's nothing you want to talk about?"

"No, ma'am." Raylan shook his head.

Miss Maxwell sighed. "Well, I suppose you'd better get along then or you'll miss the bus. You can serve your detention next week. Two hours, after school. I'll talk to your mama on the phone, this time." Her voice carried a warning. "No more fighting, okay?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

-o-o-o-o-o-

It took Raylan a mile or so to reacquaint himself with driving a stick-shift, but years of tooling around Harlan in various pick-up trucks had served him well. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and the van groaned in protest. He figured whoever took the car had a good ten minute head start, but he ought to be able to catch up at some point. He decided he'd give himself an hour and if he didn't have a bead on Brewer by then, he'd call it in.

Although the road followed a meandering river and was full of curves and potholes, so far there were no crossroads so he didn't have to make a choice about which way to go. Whenever a house appeared he slowed, scanning the drive and yard for any sign of the dark blue Crown Vic or Brewer. Most of the houses were run down, and more than one looked to be abandoned altogether. Good hiding places for a fugitive.

The sun was sliding toward the west and he was losing hope, beginning to wonder what employment opportunities he might have once the Marshal's service canned him. As he rounded yet another curve, a flash of light reflected off his rearview and he slowed, craning his neck. He spotted the car half way down the riverbank. He parked the van, locking it and pocketing the keys. Gun drawn, he slid down the embankment carefully. The car was tilted, sitting on two tires. Dirt covered one side and the trunk lid was open.

Holding his gun in front of him, Raylan opened the driver's side door. Some unlucky sap had picked the wrong car to boost. The apparent car-thief slumped out, empty eyes staring up at Raylan. His face was blue, his throat bruised, the skin torn where he'd fought the handcuffs that choked him. His tongue protruded from his lips, thick and swollen, but a quick touch to the young man's cheek with the back of his hand told Raylan he hadn't been dead long. Surely Brewer couldn't have gotten far. He peered into the trunk. His spare gun and his overnight bag were gone. Shit. The extra handcuff key was in the bag along with a bottle of Jim, fifty bucks, and a change of clothes. At least the clothes wouldn't fit Brewer.

Squatting, Raylan looked up and down the bank until he found a pattern of footfalls in the trampled grass. It looked like Brewer was doubling back toward the highway. Grabbing a flashlight from the glovebox and his cell phone, Raylan stuffed both into his pockets and took up the chase. He found the handcuffs, along with the discarded key about a half mile down the creek. Another mile and a patch of blue in the brush caught his eye. His bag, minus the money and the whiskey, lay in a pile of leaves. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes until his hour was up. He slung the bag over his shoulder and kept going.

_A/N Thanks to MSBrooklyn for her welcome assistance with this chapter. You rock._


	5. Mad Dogs and Rifles

_Part V Mad Dogs and Rifles_

Awakened from a sound sleep, Raylan sat bolt upright in bed, listening. Arlo had been out when he went to bed, drinking most likely, with Bo Crowder, or at the VFW. He always came home those evenings ready for a fight. Sure enough, a thump and a scream came up from below, and Raylan scrambled for the old shotgun Helen gave him the last time Mama ended up in the emergency room. Mama had two broken ribs and a gash on her head that took sixteen stitches. Helen hadn't said a word when she picked them up or later at the hospital. She just bundled them both into her truck and took them home with her. They'd spent a quiet two weeks there before Arlo came, bringing flowers and a new baseball glove and begging forgiveness. He got something like it from his wife, but not from Raylan.

Helen didn't need to say anything when she handed the gun to him along with a box of ammunition. Raylan snuck it into the house, loaded it, and stashed it under his bed. Now he flew down the stairs two at a time, not even bothering to tug jeans on over his underwear. Rushing into the dining room, he steadied the butt of the gun against his shoulder. "Leave her alone!" He hollered, his voice cracking.

Arlo's arm stopped in midair at the sound and he stared at his son in drunken fury. "You get on back upstairs," he growled. "This is none of your business." He jerked his wife to her feet by one arm. "Tell 'im, Frances."

His mother raised her head, one eye already beginning to swell shut. "Go on, baby, go back to bed."

"I said leave her alone," Raylan's guts felt like water, but his aim was steady.

"What're ya gonna do?" Arlo sneered. "Shoot me?"

"I will." His finger hovered on the trigger. "You hit her again I swear I will."

"Don't Raylan...please," his mother begged. "Just go back upstairs."

"You ain't gonna shoot me." Arlo pushed Frances to the floor and took a step toward Raylan, menacing. "Where'd you even get that gun, boy?" he stared down at his wife. "Probably from your meddling sister. You knew he had it, didn't you?"

"No," she sobbed. "I don't know where he got it, I swear."

"Liar." He kicked at her and reached out. "Give it here."

Raylan clenched his jaw and struggled not to cry. "No."

"Gimme that gun, goddamn it." Arlo lunged, but Raylan sidestepped him. He stuck out his foot and Arlo went sprawling on the floor. His mama screamed.

"You ungrateful sonofabitch!" He reached out for his son's ankle, but Raylan jumped out of reach. "When I get my hands on you you'll be sorry you was ever born."

"Come on, Mama," he said, grabbing the keys from the table. She stared at him, frozen, as Arlo drunkenly scrambled to his feet. Raylan half carried, half dragged his mother to his daddy's old truck, threw the rifle in the back, and sped down the back roads toward Aunt Helen's barefoot and half-naked.

Helen rummaged through her closet, coming up with pants and a shirt for him to wear. She fixed him a plate of eggs and taters and called him in sick to school. She and Mama sat at the table while he ate, drinking coffee laced with moonshine, mama holding a bag of ice wrapped in a towel to her swollen eye.

"You know you're always welcome here."

His mama nodded and took a gulp from her cup. She set it down and fixed her good eye on her sister. "Why'd you give him that gun? He mighta _killed _Arlo."

"I should've," Raylan mumbled, his mouth full.

"Raylan!" Mama gaped at him. "That's your daddy."

"Not much of one." He swallowed a gulp of cider, wishing _he _had something stronger.

Helen barked a harsh laugh. "Maybe I was hopin' he _would _shoot him. Not a judge in this county would do anything but shake the boy's hand and congratulate him." Then she turned serious, laying a hand on her sister's shoulder. "I'm afraid he's gonna kill you one of these days, Franny."

Mama's head dropped to the table and her shoulders heaved.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He walked about another mile, peering into the gathering dusk for any sign of Brewer's trail. Glancing at his watch he sighed, his time was up. He needed to call this in and get the manhunt started. Leaves crackled behind him as he reached into his pocket for his phone.

He heard a low growl and the sound of a safety click behind him. "Stop right there. Keep your hands where they are." He was relieved the voice wasn't Brewer's. "Now, turn around slow."

"I'm a U.S. Marshal. I'm looking for a fugitive," he said, turning to face the voice.

The woman who held the rifle was tiny, not much over five feet, with wispy white hair pulled into a knot on top of her head. The flannel shirt she wore came almost to her knees and her faded jeans were tucked into heavy work boots. "What're you doin' on my property?" The dog, who was probably taller than her on his hind legs, growled again and bared his teeth. "Shhh Kirby," the woman hushed.

"I'm a U.S. Marshal, Ma'am," he repeated. "I'm just gonna reach for my badge..." He started to lift his hand but she waved the rifle and the dog barked, deep and threatening.

"Keep your hands where they are. I don't need to see no badge. I don't like trespassers, especially government trespassers."

He played a hunch. "Ma'am, have you seen anyone else around your property tonight?"

She studied him for a moment, and her face relaxed, although she didn't lower the gun. "Kirby here set up a ruckus 'bout twenty minutes ago. I looked out the window and thought I saw someone by Bob's old truck, so I got my gun and came out, but I didn't see no one. Whoever it was musta took off."

"Like I told you, I'm a U.S. Marshal. I'm looking for a fugitive," he said. He held his hand at about hat level. "He's a little taller than me, and heavier. That sound like what you saw?"

"Might." She nodded, lowering the gun. "If there was someone there, he didn't come back down this way, I was between him and the river here. He must've gone up to the road." She turns, motioning for him to follow. "I guess it'd be alright you cut through the yard." The dog, evidently feeling less threatened, trotted along beside Raylan, wagging his tail. He held out the back of his hand and the animal sniffed, then licked it. Satisfied, he veered off and peed against a nearby fence post.


	6. Fools and Worthless Liars

_Part VI Fools and Worthless Liars_

Raylan moaned and pulled himself up from the bathroom floor, leaning over the toilet again. His stomach lurched, but there was nothing left. Helen nudged him with her foot.

"You 'bout done? You don't get in that shower you're gonna be late for school."

"School?" Raylan stared up at her. She had to be kidding. "I'm sick, I can't go to school."

"You ain't sick," Helen nudged him again, but this time it was more like a kick. "You're hung over because you and those good-for-nothin' Crowder boys got into my moonshine last night and ended up drunker than Davy's sow . Now get your ass up off my floor and get ready for school." She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. It felt like his skull was separating from his neck.

"I'm never drinkin' again," he murmured as he struggled to his feet.

Helen's laughter echoed in the small room. "Just stay outta the moonshine. You ain't ready for that. You gotta build up some tolerance first."

He forced himself into the shower, pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and headed down the hall. The smells assaulted him as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

"Here," Helen said, handing him a glass of murky brown liquid. "Drink this. Straight down."

He stared at it skeptically and took a sniff. "What is it?"

"Never you mind what it is, just drink it. You drank my 'shine, and I oughta let you suffer, but you're so pitiful I just can't."

He took a tentative sip, gagged, and set the glass down on the table. Helen rolled her eyes, picked it back up, and shoved it at him. "Drink. You'll thank me later."

Taking a deep breath he raised the glass to his lips and drained it. "God, that's awful." He swiped his hand across his mouth.

She grabbed a plate off the counter, loading it down with whatever was in the old iron skillet. "Sit," she said.

He sat.

"Eat it all."

"But I'll..."

"Eat."

He ate.

An hour or so later, walking from homeroom to his locker, he realized that he didn't feel that bad anymore. His stomach had settled and his head wasn't throbbing to the beat of a thousand drums, just two or three. He guessed maybe Helen was right after all. She usually was.

Johnny Crowder was leaning his forehead against the wall, pawing through his book-bag. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Raylan, you got that math homework for Jessup's class?"

"Yeah, I got it, why?" He'd done it on the bus while Johnny chatted up Cindy Mutter.

"Can I copy real quick? I can't miss 'nother assignment, he'll fail me for sure."

Johnny hadn't had Helen's cure and he looked like death warmed over. Raylan took pity on him. He looked both ways and slid the paper out of his math book to Johnny. "Don't forget to get it back to me before class."

"I won't. Thanks a bunch, Raylan."

-o-O-o-

"Mr. Crowder and Mr. Givens, could I see you for a moment, please?"

Becky Gorslin shot Raylan a sympathetic glance as she joined the others filing out of the room. He flushed, remembering things they'd said about her and Cindy, and some of the other girls last night when they were high on Helen's moonshine. Becky was a late-bloomer, but they'd all agreed she'd certainly bloomed this year.

Old man Jessup was the most feared teacher at Everett High School. He'd taught algebra, advanced math, and calculus since Aunt Helen and Mama were in school. The thick glasses he wore had slipped down to the end of his hawklike nose and he stared at them over the top.

"Gentlemen," Jessup began as they stood in front of his massive oak desk. "As I was going over today's assignment I noticed that the two of you made the same unusual mistake on problem number four, which was a rather complicated problem. Mr. Crowder, would you like to explain to me how you got your answer?"

"Um..uh...," Johnny flushed red and reached for his paper, fingering the numbers. He stammered. "I...uh..."

"That's what I thought." Jessup clucked his tongue. "I'd expect this from you, Mr. Crowder, but I am quite disappointed in Mr. Givens. Cheating is a serious matter. I'm going to tell Coach Emmons to bench you both for tomorrow's game."

"Bench us? It's only homework," Johnny sputtered.

"Only homework?" Mr. Jessup straightened to his full height, steel blue eyes narrowing. "Homework builds character, Mr. Crowder. Character is what you do when no one is looking. Obviously when no one is looking, you cheat." He pushed his glasses up and turned his gaze to Raylan. "Do you have anything to say, Mr. Givens?"

"No, sir. I was just helpin' a friend."

"Next time pick better friends. You just helped yourself to a game on the bench."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Out on the road, Raylan glanced at his watch. His hour was up ten minutes ago. He looked back up the towards the van and the ruined Crown Vic with the dead man inside. He sighed and pulled out his cell phone. After he explained who he was, the 911 operator connected him to the sheriff's department.

"Marion County Sheriff's office, Deputy Thomas speaking." He hacked a cough.

"I thought I was in Harrison County," Raylan said.

"You out on Crandall Road by the river by any chance?"

"I'm by the river. Not sure of the road."

"That road weaves in and out of two counties. It's a pain in the ass. What's goin' on out there?"

Raylan explained the situation.

"Well, shit," the man said. "Most of the office is down with the goddamn flu. Brewster and I are the only two who dragged ourselves in tonight." He coughed again. "You're sayin' this guy stole your car?"

"No," Raylan sighed. "I told you, I'm a U.S. Marshal. The guy I'm looking for is a prisoner who was in the car when it was stolen. The car thief is dead."

"You shot the car thief?"

He counted to ten. "No. The prisoner strangled the guy. He probably didn't even know there was someone in the car."

"You were at that old gas station 'bout ten miles from the highway, weren't ya. Pretty girl behind the register? That where your car got nabbed?"

"Yeah, it was."

The deputy guffawed, which led to another, longer coughing spell. "Shit. Wait'll I tell Sheriff Yarrow. Looks like Trinity and her pap are runnin' the show again. Didn't take 'em long. She flirt with ya?"

Raylan's face flushed. "Yes, yes, she did."

"Don't blame yourself, she's an awful pretty girl. She and her daddy - ain't got no mama none of us remember - got caught 'bout a year ago. They own that gas station and they'd wait until a nice lookin' vehicle pulled up - preferably a man driving by hisself - then they'd send one of her brothers out to nab it while she flirted with the guy. Her one brother, Bobby, he got picked up with one of the stolen vehicles. She testified against him, batted her eyes at the judge, and got off with probation."

"So if he's in prison, who's the dead guy who stole my car?"

"Probably the oldest brother, Wendall. He's not too smart, took special classes in school, but he knows how to drive and he'd do anythin' Trinity told him to. He follows her around like a lost pup." He clears his throat. "I'll be real sorry if it's Wendall."

"I don't understand," Raylan said. "The old man even loaned me his van to chase after my car."

"Petey would. He's pretty harmless. Trinity, she's the brains."

"Could've fooled me," Raylan said, kicking at the ground.

Deputy Thomas hooted. "Looks like she did."


	7. Dance With Me

_Part VII Dance With Me_

Raylan rolled over, throwing one arm across his eyes and breathing heavily. Becky pressed her lips against his bare shoulder and giggled.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Raylan murmured.

She tucked herself into the fold of his arm, smelling of jasmine and vanilla. "Was it worth the wait?" She bit her lip, unsure.

"Uh huh, and then some."

He leaned in and kissed her and she opened her mouth, inviting his tongue. He reached down, discarding the used condom and pulling the blanket over them as they huddled in the bed of the pick-up. The moon above was full and round, lighting up the wooded hillside where he'd found a private place to park the truck. Becky's hastily discarded prom dress was tossed over the tailgate along with his pants. The rented jacket was in the cab. He had no idea where his shirt and tie ended up and right now, he didn't care.

"You okay?" It wasn't his first time, not by a long shot, but it had been hers, and_ that_ was a first for him. Most of the girls he'd been with up to now were older and had reputations. They were bold, usually approaching him first, and he wasn't one to turn down an invitation. But Becky was a quiet girl who was smart and funny and quite direct - once you got to know her.

"I'm pretty wonderful right now."

He grinned at her. "Worth the wait?"

"Um hmm." She nodded. He threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her again.

"You look real pretty tonight," he said. He couldn't remember if he'd told her that when he picked her up. Her father, mother, and all three of her brothers had lined the porch when she walked out. Her newly highlighted hair was piled on top of her head, her skin already tanned from early summer sunbathing. The dark blue dress she wore was homemade, but you wouldn't know it. Helen said Becky's mother was the best seamstress in the county and it showed. She looked so different all he could do was stammer hello. Luckily, Helen had showed him how to pin on her corsage, so he wasn't a total fool.

They'd had dinner at Annie's Diner. It was the only decent place for miles around, so the folks who ran it always tried to make it a little fancy for prom night with real tablecloths and candles and a different menu, even though most of the kids still ordered hamburgers and chicken fried steak.

He and Becky sat crammed close together in a booth with Johnny Crowder and Cindy Mutter. Johnny snuck a flask out of the pocket of his pale blue tux and quickly poured some into each of their cokes. Cindy drank hers down right away but Becky took a sip and made a face. "Come on now, girly...you want to have fun, don'tcha?" Johnny teased.

Raylan leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want."

At the high school, the gym was decorated in a wild west theme for the dance. The teacher chaperones all wore cheap felt cowboy hats and paper chaps that crackled, unintentionally warning students of their approach. Mr. Jessup, wearing a hat too small for his large head, hovered near the punch bowl, occasionally sniffing or taking a taste to be sure no alcohol had made its way into the foamy concoction.

He and Becky had their picture taken in the fake stockade and mingled around talking while the braver kids gyrated to the fast music on the dance floor. When the lights dimmed for a slower song, he gathered his courage. "You wanna dance?"

Her eyes lit up and she nodded eagerly.

It was Helen who worked with him on this, too. Mama had promised, but she got one of her headaches, so it'd been his aunt stepping slowly and counting "1-2-3, 1-2-3," dancing him around the living room while Arlo was drinkin' at the VFW. As it was, he really wouldn't have needed the damn dance lesson. All the other kids did is sway in slow circles, making out vertically. Becky felt good in his arms, the satiny front of her dress brushing up against him. They played three slow songs in a row and by the middle of the third he was uncomfortably aware of her closeness. He pulled away, not wanting to embarrass her, but Becky pressed her hips against his.

"You wanna get out of here?" She whispered.

He looked down, catching her eyes to be sure he wasn't misunderstanding. He'd been taking it slow since she confessed she was a virgin. He liked her a lot and he didn't want to scare her off.

"You want to?"

"Um hmm." She smiled shyly.

They'd rummaged some blankets from an old trunk in the band room and threw them in the back of the pick-up. Becky ignored the seatbelt and scooted close to him. They kissed at every stop sign, once getting carried away and forgetting where they were until the car in back of them honked. They'd ended up here, parked down a dirt road about a half-mile from Helen's place. They crawled into the back of the truck, where Becky surprised him with her enthusiasm. He'd heard the guys talk about it not being very good for girls the first time, but Becky'd only bit her lip once and urged him on. From all the signs, she'd enjoyed it as much as he did.

Now he rolled over, stretching out flat, and she laid her head on his chest. "What're you gonna do after graduation?" She asked after a few moments passed.

He shrugged. "Arlo's already got a job lined up for me at the mine. I 'spose that's what I'll do. For now, anyway." He wanted, more than anything, to get out of here, to put Harlan in his rearview mirror and never look back, but that wasn't likely to happen, and, even if it was, telling Becky that at the moment would surely kill the mood.

She leaned up on one elbow, her ample breasts brushing against him. Her huge grey eyes searched his face. "Why'd you call your daddy Arlo?"

"It's his name."

She giggled again. "I know that. My daddy's name is Frank, but if'n I ever called him that I'd get a slap."

"He don't care."

"You don't like him much, do you?"

"No," he said, honest. He twirled a strand of hair around his finger. "But I like you a lot."

"I like you a lot, too." She smiled and dangled the discarded wrapper from the condom in front of him. "You got any more of these?"

He pulled her in for a kiss and hoped to hell there was another condom in the glove box.

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-

Raylan paced by the van, glancing at his watch. With every second that ticked by he felt his chances for recapturing Ray Brewer slipping away. Finally the black and white Marion County cruiser skidded to a stop in front of him.

The window lowered and a round ruddy face appeared, topped by a thick mop of graying brown hair. "Get on in, I think I know where your guy might be."

Raylan hooked a thumb at the van. "How 'bout I follow you. I'd like to return the van, and there is a crime scene down the bank there. Thought maybe you'd like to take a look at it."

"Oh, shit that's right." The deputy turned the car off and opened the door. "Tom Thomas," he said, holding out his hand.

"Raylan Givens."

"So you're a U.S. Marshal, huh? Never worked with a Marshal before. That accent...where you from?" Tom kept up a flow of conversation, interrupted by occasional bursts of coughing, as they made their way to the wrecked car. He peered in the shattered window at the body of the car thief.

"Damn, damn, damn," he said. "That's Wendall alright. The missus is gonna be mighty upset. Had that boy in her special class over at the high school. Liked him a lot. I think he even had dinner at our house once or twice...nice boy, real polite." He shook his head. "Dumb as a box of rocks as far as readin' and writin', but anything to do with cars, he was a wiz."

Raylan knew there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do about Wendall. "So what's the lead you got on my guy?"

"Come on, maybe we can kill two birds with one stone."

He followed Thomas back up the road, surprised when the deputy turned off his headlights and pulled into Trintiy's gas station. Raylan clicked his off as well. There was a car parked at the pump, no sign of a driver or passengers. Other than the bright lights from inside, the place seemed deserted. The hair on the back of Raylan's neck stood up. Something wasn't right.

Tom met him by "We got a call from here to 911 right after I hung up with you. It was interrupted, so it mighta been a mistake, but I don't much believe in coincidences." He drew his gun.

Raylan pulled his out as well and the dark gave them cover as they inched their way forward. "You see anythin'?"

"Looks like the Trinity is behind the counter." Tom inched back over to his car and pulled out a pair of ancient binoculars. "My eyes aren't what they used to be. See what you can see."

Raylan leveled the binoculars on the hood of the car and stared through them. The blonde from earlier was perched on a stool beside the register smoking a cigarette nervously. "Yeah, that's her." He shifted, sweeping his eyes through as much of the inside as he could see. He spotted a flash of green back by the coolers. Brewer's jailhouse scrubs were green. "Shit, I think he's in there."

"He armed?"

"He's got my spare," Raylan sighed. "It was in the trunk."

"Ammo?"

"Enough."

"I'm callin' Harrison County for back-up." Deputy Thomas inched back to his car. As he leaned in to grab his radio, his elbow hit the horn. The sound echoed in the darkness. "Shit!"

Through the binoculars Raylan saw Brewer turn. He started advancing toward the window. Raylan could just see the top of the man's head over one of the shelves. "Just a little further," he murmured. A couple of feet and he'd have a shot. Not a great one, but a chance. Then Brewer appeared at the end of the aisle, holding a dark-haired girl no more than a teenager in front of him. The girl clutched a baby in her arms. Her eyes were squeezed closed and her mouth was moving.

"He's got hostages besides Trinity." Raylan called to Tom. "A girl and a baby."

"Crap." He hooked a thumb at the car sitting by the pump. "Probably the driver. Can you get to the car? Maybe her name's on the registration."

Raylan scooted half on his knees half on his belly to the car, the passenger side faced away from the window. He reached in and opened the glove box, pulling out a handful of papers. He made his way back to Thomas. They sorted through the papers. No registration.

"I'm goin' in." If anything happens to these people, it would be on him.

"Just hold your pants on, Marshal. Don't be rash. We should try to get him talkin'." He pulled a horn out of the backseat of the cruiser. "What's your fella's name again?"

"Brewer. Deacon Brewer."

"Mr. Brewer?" Deputy Thomas pushed to a standing position, still partially covered by the car. "There isn't any way out of there, Mr. Brewer. I know you don't want to hurt anyone. Why don't you let her go and we'll talk about it?"

Brewer's answer is to shoot out the window and duck behind the shelf, pulling the girl and the now screaming baby with him. "Shut that kid up," he growled.

"Let her go, Deacon," Raylan yelled. "I know you got other people in there. Just let the lady and her baby leave." He stood up from behind the cruiser. "As a sign of good faith."

A moment passes, then another. Brewer came back into view, still holding the girl by the arm, but this time, his gun was aimed at Trinity. He gave the girl a shove and she ran, sobbing, holding the baby tight. Tom met her halfway and eased her into the back of his car.

Brewer motioned to Trinity to come out from behind the counter. "Don't come any closer or she's dead." He backed into the aisle, pulling her with him and they both disappeared from view.


	8. Shots in the Dark

The Harlan sun beat down as he maneuvered the mower between the granite headstones. Even after ten years, the things always gave him the creeps, especially his own. It had been an unusually warm week for June, and the weekend promised to be a real scorcher. The thought of descending into the cool of the mines come Monday morning was almost a relief. Almost. He didn't like it, but he didn't have much choice. At least he could save some money, maybe enough to take some classes up in Lexington, if he ever figured out what he wanted to do. Lost in thought, he didn't hear the car approach until Becky slammed the door and ran over to him in bare feet.

"This is a surprise." He shut off the mower and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

"I got something to show you!"

She started to tug a paper out of the pocket of her cutoffs, but he laughed and pulled her in for a kiss. Her lips were warm and she smelled of Coppertone. "First things first," he murmured against her mouth.

She slid her arms around his neck and he walked her backwards pressing her up against the fence. Most of their trysts thus far were consummated in the back of the truck or on a blanket spread out in the woods or down by the lake. But today the house was empty. Mama had gone to visit Helen and get her hair done and Arlo'd left before dawn with Bo Crowder, off to God-knows-where. He kissed the soft skin next to her ear. "Wanna go up to my room?"

Becky tilted her head up. "No one's home?"

"Nope." He grinned.

She hesitated a moment, chewing her lip, so he grabbed at her, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her into the house. Her screams dissolved into giggles as he carried her up the stairs and threw her onto the narrow bed.

She held out her arms, welcoming, and he slithered out of his jeans and boxers, tossing them over the chair. He kissed her, making short work of her t-shirt and bra. The whiteness of her breasts stood out against her darkened skin. She shivered when he lowered his mouth and he reached out one hand to fumble a condom out of the dresser drawer.

She took it from him. "Here, let me." It was his turn to shiver, and she laughed, pulling him on top of her and wrapping her legs around him, guiding him into place.

After, they flopped on their backs and lay naked in the hot breeze from the open window.

"I wish I had a cigarette," Becky said.

He leaned up on one elbow. "You don't smoke."

"Yeah, I know," she said. "But first time on a real bed deserves a cigarette."

"Glad you liked it."

"Very much." Her eyes roamed the room, stopping on the poster tacked to the wall above the dresser. "I've never seen that movie."

"High Noon? It's great."

"It's pretty old, isn't it?"

"My Aunt Helen has a bunch of old movies for her VCR. You have to come over and watch it sometime."

'Okay," she pulled him down and kissed him again.

He ran a finger down the valley between her breasts, a smile curving his mouth. "You said you had something to show me." He broke into a full grin. "But right now I think I'm seein' just about everything."

"Oh!" she swatted at him. "You are bad. You made me forget the best news ever." She fished on the floor for her shorts, pulling out the paper from earlier. She rolled on her side to face him, unfolding it carefully.

"Miss Maxwell said I had a chance but I never thought..." she was vibrating with excitement. "Read it!"

He noted the University of Cincinnati logo at the top of the page. He scanned the rest of the letter admitting Becky to the school of education at UC. "You're goin' to college?" He managed to plaster a smile on his face before he looked up. "That's great." He leaned in and kissed her.

"I've always wanted to be a teacher. Mama says I've talked about it forever," she babbled. "But when I didn't get that scholarship at UK, I didn't think I'd ever be able to go. I went to Miss Maxwell and she said she'd see what she could do, but I never expected this!" She jabs a finger a line in bold on the paper. "I'm getting a full academic scholarship. They're even givin' me room and board. Maybe I'll change my mind and be a counselor like Miss Maxwell." She drew back and studied his face. "Aren't you happy for me?"

"Sure I am," he said. He swung his legs over the end of the bed and reached for his jeans. He swallowed hard, pushing down the fear, ashamed.

"Hey." She sat up behind him, wrapping her arms around him and setting her chin on his shoulder. "I'll miss you, but Cincinnati isn't that far away." She pressed her lips to the back of his neck. "You've got your truck. You can come visit me all the time."

"Yeah," he said, forcing another smile. "That'll be great."

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

His hand shook as he set his lunchbox on the counter and reached into the fridge for a pop. He took a deep breath to steady himself and leaned against the counter, popping the tab and sucking the cold liquid down in two swallows. Crumpling the can he tossed it in the trash. He ran water and splashed his face, keeping his eyes open. Every time he closed them he could hear the noise, feel the coal dust choking him. If it hadn't been for Boyd Crowder... Shit.

He heard the rattle of Helen's old truck as it came up the drive. The door slammed and she opened the door without knocking.

"You alright?" She put her hands on either side of his face and stared into his eyes."Raylan?"

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine."

"We got out." He sighed, pulling away. "No harm no foul."

Helen paced the width of the kitchen. "You are not goin' back down there."

He shrugged. "It's a job. What else am I gonna do? Join Arlo's little gang?"

She wagged a finger at him. "You bite your tongue, boy." Reaching into her jacket pocket, she took out an envelope. "Here." She thrust it at him, her eyes bright.

"What's this?" He peeled back the flap and stared at the money inside. His eyes widened and he stared back at his aunt. "Where'd you get this?"

"Never you mind that. It's yours now. It ain't as much as I'd like to give you, but it's a start. It'll get you away from here. Go to school, go to Cincinnati after that girl of yours...just get the hell out of Harlan."

School. Becoming a teacher, like Becky, holds no appeal and he can't think of a single job he'd need a college degree for. College has always been out of reach, never to be considered. Hell, he'd have to take the SATs first.

Silence hangs between them until Helen blows out a frustrated breath. "You used to love playin' cops and robbers. Why don't you go study to be some kind of fancy lawman? God knows, you learned plenty about criminals livin' here."

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

Deputy Thomas patted the girl's shoulder as she sat sobbing and shaking in the back of the cruiser. "It's alright now, you're safe," he said. She clutched the wailing baby tighter and he turned to Raylan. "She oughta be checked out. I'm gonna call an ambulance."

"No siren no lights," Raylan warned. "He might think it's more cops." He made his way forward until he was at the corner of the building, hidden in the shadows. At this angle, he could see most of the back of the store. There was no sign of Brewer, or Trinity, but someone was slumped against the wall, unmoving. "Tom," he hissed. "I think Trinity's dad is in there, too."

"Well, where else would he be, seein' as you got his van?"

"He isn't moving."

"Well, shit. You stay right here, Miss." Tom ducked low and moved quickly, putting his back against the wall beside Raylan. "Show me."

Raylan guided the other man along his line of sight. "I don't see any blood. Maybe he just knocked him out good."

"Might not have taken much," Raylan said. "He was high as a kite."

"Yeah, he usually is."

"Is there a back door?"

Tom shook his head. "I don't think so. Want me to check?"

"That'd be a help. I'm gonna try to engage him." He waited until Tom disappeared around the corner before shouting. "Brewer! It's Deputy Givens. Can I talk to you?" There was a long stretch of silence before Brewer answered.

"You can talk all you want. It ain't gonna change nothin'."

Tom came back around the corner. "There's a back door, locked."

"Crap," Raylan muttered.

"I'll keep an eye on it until back-up gets here."  
"Okay," Raylan watched the other man disappear again. He took a deep breath. "We've got you locked down tight. Things'll go better if you just come out now and let me take you in."

"Oh, I'm comin' out alright. You're gonna let me walk out the front door, else I'm gonna blow this pretty girl's brains all over this place."

If he let Brewer leave with Trinity, she'd be dead for sure. Raylan inched closer to the door, keeping low and out of sight of the window. "I don't think you want to do that," he shouted back.

"Don't wanna, but I will. Just like I killed that guy what drove off in your car." He laughed, mean. "Some lawman you are lettin' a retard get the jump on you."

There was a growl and a crash and Trinity screamed. Glass shattered beside Raylan and Brewer landed on the pavement, Petey on top of him, pummeling him with his fists. "That's my boy!" He shouted. "You killed my boy!" Trinity screamed again, the two men rolled, and Raylan had no shot.

Brewer, surprised by the attack and taking the worst of it from the smaller man, recovered, landing a heavy clock to the side of Petey's head with the gun. Petey fell, limp, and Brewer came up to one knee, aiming the gun at Raylan. His finger twitched on the trigger.

Trinity ran past him, kneeling beside her father.

"You don't wanna do that, Brewer," Raylan said. "Just put the gun down." Deputy Thomas came around the corner, his own gun drawn and Brewer and Raylan fired at the same time.

Brewer fell, Trinity screamed again, and Thomas staggered forward. "I'm hit," he groaned, and sank to the ground beside Raylan.

_A/N This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it looks like there'll be one more and then an epilogue. I've loved trying to picture how Raylan got to where he is now. I hope you've enjoyed my take on the possibilities._


	9. This Lonesome Road

_A/N We don't know much about the time after Raylan left Harlan and before he became a Marshal, but he did mention something recently about scrubbing toilets in a bar...so there's the inspiration for this part of the final chapter._ _Every story has an ending, and this will be the last two-part chapter. An Epilogue will follow._

"So that'll be the job," the man droned on. "Put the chairs up on the tables, mop the floor, and clean the bathrooms. Floors, sinks, and toilets. Make sure the paper towel holders and toilet paper are full." He looked pointedly at Raylan. "It can get pretty messy in there," he warned.

"That won't be a problem. I can do the job, sir," Raylan said. He needed this. Between tuition, books, and his crummy apartment and utilities, he'd made a severe dent in Helen's gift. If he wanted the money to last he was going to have to find a job.

"Alright then." The man handed him a set of keys. "You'll be the last one here, so lock up when you leave." He took a worn leather jacket off a nearby chair and slipped into it. "Payday is every Friday. I pay minimum but you help the bartender with the weekend crowd and you might get yourself some tips, too. And you don't have to split those with anyone, since you aren't regular wait-staff. Follow me." He motioned, walking down the hallway. He opened a narrow door. The closet was packed with cleaning supplies and stacks of paper towels and toilet paper. "You fill the buckets in the kitchen, but dump 'em out the back alley. Don't worry about cleanin' the kitchen, that's the cook's job. I think that's everything." He held out his hand and Raylan shook it. "You can start tonight, if you want."

"Yes, sir." He had plans, but they could be changed.

Becky answered the phone on the first ring. "Hey," she said. "I can't wait to see you."

"I can't come up this weekend," he said, kicking the wall beside the pay phone with the toe of his boot. "I got a job and I gotta start work tonight."

There was a beat of silence. "That's good," she said, finally. "What kind of job?"

"Bartending," he lied.

"You old enough to bartend?"

"I mighta fibbed about my age. They don't care none. I look old enough."

"I could come up there."

"I might not have much time. I gotta work late," he warned. "And help clean up after."

"That's okay. I have two papers to write. I can use the library at UK. We can still spend some time together. And I can come watch you bartend and fend off all the girls."

"I'd rather you didn't. It's not a college bar. It isn't in a very nice part of town."

More silence, then he heard the tap of her fingers on computer keys. "You don't want me to come?"

"Sure, I do...I do." He sighed, leaning back against the rough bricks. "My apartment is a pit though."

"I'll help you fix it up."

"It's pretty small."

"Can't be any smaller than my dorm room and you don't have a roommate who has no social life and studies twenty-four-seven." She paused. "I still don't understand why you didn't come up here. You could get the classes you need at UC and we could..."

"Are you comin' or not?"

"I'll be there." She rattled off the address he'd given her. "I'll see you Thursday night. I don't have classes on Friday."

Their visit went well, at least in the bedroom. He could tell Becky was put out that he hadn't invited her to see where he was working, but he ignored the pouting, and she hadn't pressed the point. They spent most of Friday in bed, only getting up and dressed to walk up the street to the diner for a late lunch.

Since she had to leave early Sunday morning, he snuck out of the bar early Saturday night, promising the bartender he'd be back to clean up the next day. Bars were closed on Sunday in Lexington anyway. He remembered what Helen taught him and took Becky out on the closest thing he could manage to a real date, a late dinner of pizza, and a midnight showing of _Bull Durham_. Baseball for him, romance for her, and they ended the weekend happy, kissing goodbye as she got into her car.

The next two months were a blur. Classes were harder than he expected, but he'd never really studied in high school. Most of the time, the job wasn't bad during the week. The weekends were another story. It being a bar, vomit was a frequent occurrence, but other things were way worse than that. The smells got to him at first, until he remembered what Arlo used to do when Bo sent him out on some late-night errand he never wanted to discuss, and started using Vick's Vapo-rub to mask the smell.

Working almost everyday, plus taking as many classes as he could, gave him no time to make a trip to Cincinnati, and hardly any time to call. Twice when he had called, pretty late, Becky's sullen roommate told him she was out. So maybe he shouldn't have been surprised when she called him out of the blue to tell him she'd met someone else, but he was.

"Said she was lonely. Said she never meant for it to happen," he told Lewis, the week-night bartender, late that night as the older man lifted chairs up onto the tables as Raylan swept. "How the hell do you accidentally sleep with someone else?"

Lewis laughed. "I'll ask my old lady. She done that once. Came back a month later, boo-hooin' about how sorry she was and beggin' me to take her back."

Raylan looked up, stopping the broom in mid-swipe. "Did you?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "We been together a long time. She knows my shit and I know hers. Thinkin' about going through someone else's shit..." he laughs again. "Better the devil ya know than the devil ya don't."

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

Raylan leaned against Tom's cruiser watching the paramedics work on the older man. Tom was hit, but luckily the bullet was just a through-and-through to his shoulder. Brewer wasn't as lucky. He was dead, already on a stretcher with a sheet thrown over him. Raylan's bullet had caught him center mass, just like he'd been taught at Glynco.

He watched the crime scene people do their jobs, detached, already itching to get in the car and get back to Dallas. But there was no car. The car was a crime scene, too. He sighed. He'd already called his boss. After a few choice words, Ben Walters told him to stay put and he'd be there in a couple of hours. "Don't do anything stupid," his boss said. "Anything _else_, that is."

There would be punishment for his lack of foresight, Raylan was sure, he just didn't know what it might be. His imagination ran wild, conjuring up everything from an immediate drumming out of the Marshal Service in disgrace to months of desk duty and boring research. He wasn't sure which was the worse possibility.

"You okay?" Tom's voice broke through his thoughts.

"I'm fine," Raylan said.

"You ever shoot a man before?"

"Nope."

"I've shot a few," Tom volunteered. "Never killed none, but if anyone was askin' for it, it was this asshole. I wouldn't lose any sleep over him."

"I won't," Raylan answered truthfully. He knew Brewer's face wouldn't haunt his dreams. The only thing on his mind when he fired his gun was protecting Tom and himself, and he'd done that, best he could.

One of Tom's fellow deputies had cuffed Trinity and was about to stuff her into the back of his cruiser. "Wait," Raylan called. "Can you gimme a minute?"

The officer backed away, leaving Trinity standing there, hands behind her. She hung her head at Raylan's approach. "One brother's in prison and the other one is dead because of you."

After a moment she shrugged. "Wendall knew what he was doin'."

"No," Raylan said. "I don't think he did. But he woulda done anything for you. And I think you know that." He glanced across the parking lot to where another paramedic was working on Petey who had cuts from the window glass as well as bruises from his fight with Brewer. "And so does your daddy."

At the mention of her father, Trinity's head shot up. Her eyes misted over for a second, then she reared back and spit in Raylan's face.


	10. Choices

_A/N I thought this story was over but for the epilogue, but as I wrote that, it seemed there were things missing, more to tell...so...here's a little more._

The history department offices were quiet by the time Raylan got there. His footsteps echoed on the polished tile floors as he made his way to Dr. Coale's office. It was after six, but there was light under the door, so he rapped a knuckle on the edge of the frame. He hoped his advisor didn't keep him long. He was subbing for the bartender tonight, and that meant more money in his paycheck come Friday.

He rapped again.

"Yes?" a voice called.

He pushed the door open. "You wanted to see me?" The sun slanted in through the west-facing window, and Raylan squinted against the light.

"Come in, Raylan, come in," Dr. Coale said. His back was to Raylan as he dug through a file drawer. "Have a seat." He gestured to his conference table in the corner of the room surrounded by six high backed wooden chairs. Raylan set his back pack on the floor with a thunk and sat, stretching his legs out under the table.

"How's your week going?" The professor studied him. "Ready for exams?"

Raylan shrugged. For the most part he was ready, although the advanced math course they'd placed him in was proving to be a challenge. "I guess so."

Dr. Coale pushed his glasses up on his hawk-like nose. "I asked you here today because you're still undeclared and at this point we really ought to be declaring a major." He looked at Raylan expectantly. "Really we should have done it before now. Any ideas?"

Another shrug. "Not really." Nothing had struck him as of yet, and sometimes he wondered if he'd end up like Lewis, bartending for a career.

"What interests you?" He flipped a page of the file. "You've taken a smattering of just about everything but not enough for a concentration. Quite a few history courses...maybe youd like to be a teacher?"

"No," Raylan thought of Becky and shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Have you ever considered law enforcement?" His academic advisor opened another folder and slid a computer printout across the table. "The test showed that you have the aptitude." The test was some kind of psychological personality bullshit that Raylan had taken months ago. The college made any junior yet to declare a major take it.

One corner of his mouth turned up as he remembered his aunt's words. It wasn't that surprising, really to discover that Helen knew him better than he knew himself. "So you're tellin' me I've wasted my money on college and I shoulda just gone to the Police Academy?"

Dr. Coale stroked his beard and chuckled. "Not at all." He tapped his pen on the desk, glancing down at Raylan's transcripts again. "You're doing well, and in some hard courses. You don't have to settle for being a beat cop. Most federal law enforcement agencies require a four year degree, and a good GPA as well."

"What, like the FBI?" He couldn't keep the distain out of his voice.

"Not necessarily. There are other agencies; ATF, the Marshal Service.."

"Marshals? You mean like Wyatt Earp?"

Another chuckle. "No, no...despite what you've seen in the movies, Earp was more a criminal than a lawman, truth be told." He opened a drawer and handed Raylan a slick, black, three-ring binder. "The regulations and application process are all outlined in here - why don't you take a look? If you have any questions, my brother-in-law is a retired U.S. Marshal. I'm sure he'd be happy to regale you with stories."

"Thanks," Raylan said. He left the office and that night he read the notebook from cover to cover in one sitting.

-o-o-o-

He spent all of his free time studying the manual Dr. Coale gave him until he knew the requirements and regulations for the U.S. Marshal Service backwards and forwards.

He bought a used Glock at a gun show in Louisville along with enough ammunition to start practicing. Lewis took Raylan to his gun range early one Saturday morning. He talked to Raylan as he walked him through cleaning and loading his new weapon. "I'd've thought you grew up shooting, down there in Harlan."

"Yeah," Raylan said as he watched the older man dismantle the piece for the third time. "But mostly shotguns and rifles. A sawed off here and there. I only shot a handgun once or twice. No need for it, really."

"Here." Lewis handed him the gun. "Now you do it."

It took him a few times, but when they left that day he felt confident he could load quickly and clean the gun when he was finished.

Lewis set him up with the instructor, Clint; a retired Vietnam vet who took a liking to Raylan, even keeping the range open late a couple of nights a week so he could get practice in after he cleaned the bar. "I don't sleep all that well anyway," the man confided. "More than twenty years out you think the nightmares'd go away, but they ain't."

Raylan wondered if Arlo ever had nightmares, if maybe that's what the drinking and fighting were about after all, but he shook it off, not willing to entertain any theories that remotely let his old man off the hook for his behavior. He was a criminal and an asshole, not necessarily in that order, but in Raylan's mind, neither deserved sympathy or forgiveness.

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

"First of all, I want you to know that I take some responsibility for what happened." Bob Walters said. "I should never have sent you off on your own so soon. If you'da had back-up this wouldn't have happened." He tossed his pen on the desk. "But goddamn it anyway, Givens, you broke five or six regs on this assignment. I oughta suspend you."

A trickle of sweat trailed down between his shoulder blades. The chief's office was stuffy, and the heat and heavy humidity that hung over Dallas had permeated the building. The ancient air conditioning system couldn't keep up.

"Chief, I..." Raylan began, then, lowered his hands to his side. "I screwed up."

"Yeah, you did," Walters sighed. "But fortunately for you, we're too short-handed for me to do much but slap you on the wrist. You're suspended without pay tomorrow. Be back here Thursday morning by seven. You and Hank Gerard need to head out to Duncanville." He slapped a folder down on the desk. "Take this home and familiarize yourself. You know anything about guns?"

"Some," Raylan said. "Mostly what they taught at Glynco."

"There's a lot of info in that folder. So read through it careful." He eased his weight onto the edge of the desk, which creaked in protest.

"Fugitive we're lookin' for may be workin' for an arms dealer. He thinks he's meeting some potential customers. Gerard made the contact with the dealer. Asked for a guy his friend used. The friend is one of our informants. Anti-government wacko, but he doesn't want to go to prison. Anyway, you're gonna stand out like a sore thumb in the suit and tie. You need to look like a Texan, so get yourself a hat and some boots."

"Yessir."

The chief's stern look cracked with the hint of a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "And don't forget to gas up before you leave."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The boots were no problem. He'd been thinking about getting a pair for awhile now, and it didn't take him long to find a pair that he liked. The hat, however, proved difficult.

"Try this one," Gerard suggested.

Raylan had called him when all his attempts at finding a hat that fit his head and didn't look ridiculous had failed. He took the hat Hank held out and glanced in the mirror. "Too small."

Gerard looked at him thoughtfully. "Yeah, you're right. That's a businessman's Stetson. It's what I wear, but on you it looks..."

"Like I oughta be climbin' out of a clown car?" Raylan finished.

Gerard's eyes wandered the display of hats against the wall of the shop. "This'n would look foolish on me," he said, picking up a cream colored hat with a thin brown cord around the crown. "But on you it might work."

He slid the hat on and looked at his reflection. "Well, what'dya think?"

Hank grinned at him. "Now you look like a real goddamn cowboy."


	11. Kismet

Raylan squinted into the sunlight as he saw the sign up ahead. Looking at the directions this should be it, and sure enough the sign read Federal Law Enforcement Training Center: Glynco next Exit. He sighed and rolled his shoulders. The traffic on I-95 had been heavier once he passed Savannah, and he was tired and tense. He slowed as he approached the exit. There was the usual cluster of gas stations and fast food restaurants at the end of the ramp, and he pulled into the closest station to fill up the car and stretch his legs.

He pulled the papers giving him his assignment out of the glove compartment and read them over for the hundredth time. He was to report to FLECTC today by noon. The intense training would last approximately 17 1/2 weeks. The letter made it clear that he was among the elite to have even made it this far, but that the next four months would prove challenging, both mentally and physically.

In the weeks since he'd received the letter, not long after he graduated and taken the entrance exam, Raylan had started an honest-to-God exercise program for the first time in his life. He'd passed the written part of the exam with an 89% and gotten a superior rating on his shooting, but the best he managed on the physical skills test was 'acceptable'. Now he could run six miles easily, maybe farther if he had to. He'd taken advantage of the UK alumni gym to build up some muscle in the weight room, and done some boxing with Lewis at his gym. He still wasn't sure he was ready, but he was as ready as he was going to be.

The letter also warned of the hot and humid conditions at the Training Center, and advised recruits to begin hydrating several weeks ahead of arrival. He wasn't used to drinking a lot of water, but he'd carried a bottle with him everywhere until it felt like a part of him. He wanted this. He wasn't going to squander the opportunity by collapsing from dehydration.

He took another lap around the station, checked his watch, and got back in the car, turning left out of the parking lot and following the signs. Showing his papers to the guard at the gate, he followed the directions, pulling up in front of a low, grey, cement block building that would be his home for the duration of the training. He hauled his duffel bag out of the trunk and glanced down at the number on the envelope the guard had given him. _J7_. The room was on the second floor, toward the far end of the building. The door was ajar. He pushed it open.

"Hey, you must be Givens," the voice belonged to an angular man a little taller than Raylan, with close-cropped dark hair and a hawkish nose. He held out a hand. "Dan Grant, USMC."

A Marine. One glance at the tightly made bed against the wall and the neat row of shirts, pants, and shoes in the tiny closet left no doubt that Dan Grant's military training was throughly ingrained.

"You military?"

"No." Raylan shook his head.

"Hair should've given that away," Dan chuckled. "College then. Where'd you go?"

"University of Kentucky." He tossed his bag on the bed by the window. There was a stack of sheets and towels, two pairs of uniform pants, t-shirts, shorts, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with USMS in gold letters.

"Good school."

He figured he and his roommate would have little in common. Dan grew up in the suburbs of Chicago in a big, close, Catholic family of Marines and firefighters and talked to his parents or one of his siblings every other day or so. By the third week, though, he and Raylan had bonded over an intense mutual hatred of their instructor, a grim-faced bald ape of a man named Howard Yancey. He was retired Army, had little use for Marines, and being from the Great State of Tennessee, as he frequently intoned, had even less use for a Kentucky hill boy like Raylan.

"Bastard," Dan muttered late one Friday night, tossing back a third bourbon in a bar not far from the center. "He lets that little Lawson shit get away with everything and makes you run another three miles in this heat. He's an asshole."

"Yep," Raylan said. They'd already run six miles, then spent the rest of the morning doing push-ups, sit-ups, and mountain-climbers until more than one recruit threw up their breakfast. Randy Lawson, an Army veteran and Yancey's obvious favorite, made one smart-aleck hillbilly remark too many. Raylan slugged him and got three more miles and written up for his trouble. His legs felt like Jello and he didn't like the black mark on his record. Yancey had already commented more than once on his temper. As hard as he tried though, he couldn't always reel it in.

Dan set his glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. "Someday, when I'm Chief Deputy, I won't put up with that shit." He motioned to the bartender for another round. When it came, he clinked his glass against Raylan's. "You can come work for me."

He had no doubt Dan would make Chief, probably before he was forty. Raylan grinned. "I'll drink to that."

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o

The bar was too crowded and the music was too loud. He came close to turning heel and heading out to look for someplace else to drink himself into oblivion. The prisoner he was here in Salt Lake City to transfer decided at the last minute to fight extradition and now Raylan was stuck here for the weekend in a cheap goverment-paid-for hotel room in the less than stellar part of town. It was ninety-five at sundown and the only air-conditioning back in his room was a ceiling fan that only worked on high speed. It was like sleeping in a wind tunnel.

A spot opened up at the bar and he leaned in, waving a hand to get the harried bartender's attention. The man held up a finger, grabbed two beers from the cooler and handed them to a waitress hovering behind him. Swinging the towel over his shoulder he addressed Raylan. "What'll it be?"

"Bourbon stra..."

"Bud Light." A soft voice with a Kentucky lilt broke in.

"You two together?" The bartender looked at Raylan.

Raylan turned to the source of the voice and lost his own for a moment. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. "I'll get it," he finally croaked.

"Thanks," she said, smiling. She took a pull on the beer and swiveled on her stool, directing her attention back to another woman standing beside her. After a few minutes of conversation, they hugged and the other woman headed out of the bar.

"See you tomorrow," she called.

Kentucky accent turned back to him. "Sorry, that was rude, but it's her birthday. Thanks for the beer. I'm Winona."

Lashes blinked against the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and his own name vanished in a jumble of unfamiliar jitters. "Raylan," he said finally.

She cocked her head. "That's an unusual name."

His lips curled into a grin. "Says Winona."

"Touche'," she laughed, lightly.

"You're from Kentucky." He was pretty sure he was right, but her stare almost convinced him otherwise.

"Not anymore."

It was his turn to laugh. "Me, either."

"Kentucky is a nice place never to go back to."

"Definitely."

She leaned in closer, and he could smell the scent of her perfume or shampoo, light and citrusy. "So what do you do, Raylan from Kentucky?"

"I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal."

"You're kidding." She looked at him skeptically.

He dipped his head under the hat and slid his eyes up to hers. "Wanna see my badge?"

This time the laughter bubbled out of her and her whole face lit up. He decided then and there that he wanted to make her laugh that way at least once a day for the rest of his life.

The End of the Beginning


End file.
